


The Rain is Gone

by lucycamui



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Soulmates, M/M, Romance, an original soulmate au
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-08
Updated: 2019-01-08
Packaged: 2019-10-06 10:49:27
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,534
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17343932
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lucycamui/pseuds/lucycamui
Summary: Victor's world is out of focus. It has been, since the day he was born. Everyone's is, or everyone who is said to be gifted with a soulmate. It's only once you fall in love that you can see the world clearly, for the wonder that it truly is.written for yoisoulmatezine





	The Rain is Gone

Victor's world is out of focus. It has been, since the day he was born. Everyone's is, or everyone who is said to be gifted with a soulmate. Life is a blur. Colors bleed together at the edges, shapes never quite sharp enough no matter how close he gets. Those who meet their soulmates say it’s like living in a haze, one which lifts into the most wondrous clarity. Victor ignores them.

It is possible to get vision corrected. When Victor reads, he wears glasses to help, many others wear contacts. Over the past couple decades, surgery has become a popular option and required of professions such as pilots. Victor has often been asked if he has considered it. He hasn’t, because it means he would never know if he’s met his soulmate.

When Victor skates, he doesn’t do it by sight. To him, skating is a feeling, an expression of the themes and emotions encased in his programs. In Juniors, it caused collisions with fellow skaters in practices, but he’s become more aware with age. His vision did not need to be precise to learn new jumps, he has never been a visual learner. Sequences, even out of focus, are easy enough to visualize in his mind. Scores are always read aloud. Once he debuted into Seniors, he began to choreograph his own routines, so what more did he need?

Yakov’s loud scolding echoes from somewhere at his side. For once, at least, the post competition ramblings are not directed at him, but the younger blond protégé at his side. Like him, however, Yuri lets the words bounce off, posture slumped. Even if Victor can not see it clearly, he is sure the expression the teen wears is one of exasperation.

There are moments, when Victor allows himself to daydream. To think how the face of the Iceberg Skating Palace might look like as it is meant to be seen, or how easily he could count the petals of the roses on display outside a flower shop if he pauses while walking with his soulmate’s hand clasped in his own. He wants to see the Trinity Bridge at sunset and at sunrise, holding the person meant for him throughout the night.

Yakov isn’t the only one shouting. Behind him, Victor hears another impassioned voice, Japanese by the string of syllables Victor catches. He feels eyes on him, as he often does, and turns.

A face, out of focus, stares at him. Dark hair, blue jacket. Shoulders hang as if in defeat.

Victor smiles. He always smiles. It is practiced, perfected. Over a decade in front of press, he can flash a camera-ready smile on cue. “You want to get a photo? Sure thing!”

No response. The figure turns, leaving Victor to watch the wheels of his suitcase rolling away. The exit sign above the door shines dully.

 

* * *

 

At three something am one sleepless night, Victor had watched a documentary while Makkachin dozed in his lap. It was about deserts, arid, the exact type that came to mind when the word was used, with sand dunes as far as the eye could see. Eyes better than his own. The program had said that sometimes the sand sings as it falls down the dunes, vibrating in inexplicable synchronicity. A low droning that fills the air and can drive one trapped within its call to the point where no mirages can spark hope.

The banquet drones all around him.

The voice of a sponsor talking far too much business, the excitement of a junior skater with their first medal. Victor remembers his first. It doesn’t feel so special anymore. He’s supposed to be wearing his gold, but he’s not. It’s in his hotel room, thrown at the foot of the bed. How many does he have now? Too many to count, not enough to matter. What use is a medal when there’s no one to share it with?

There’s music, there’s champagne. There’s photos. Victor smiles. He always smiles. An hour in, Chris swoops in and drapes himself across Victor’s shoulder, throwing a flirty wink at a sponsor as he draws Victor away and saves him. An mouthful of water from an otherwise empty canteen.

Chris confronts him, all the while dropping sweet names and leaning hard on the French inflection. He wants to know why Victor did not give an answer for his future plans at the conference, concealing the inquiry behind delicate phrases and heavy mascara. Victor tells Chris as much as he’s decided. Which is nothing. He can’t confess to something he doesn’t know.

Minutes tick, one by one by half by less than that. Even sand in an hourglass would feel like the grains are falling in slow motion. Victor wants to leave but leaving would mean returning to his cold hotel room with cold sheets and a colder night spent alone.

There’s a commotion. Someone staggers at the center of the room. Victor thinks he might recognize the blur. He recognizes Japanese, recognizes the motivation with which the drunken skater pushes away someone who has come to offer help.

Others draw away, retreating, making way but Victor stays put. A shout, a laugh, a foot snags on itself.

Victor’s arms are full.

“Vikutoru! I… I f-found you!”

Victor does not react. Yuuri. Yuuri something. They were in the same skate group. He’s Japan’s Ace. Yakov had warned Victor that he was the one to watch if on his game. He hadn’t been.

“Wow,” Yuuri exhales, hanging onto Victor as if for dear life. His shirt is loose and there’s a tie on his head. As Victor gazes down he realizes those aren’t shorts, they’re tight black briefs. Victor has a half-naked Japanese skater grinding against him, smelling of sweet champagne and the lemongrass of the hotel brand shampoo. “Your… your eyes are so... blue…”

Yuuri’s face is close but it’s blurred around the edges. Victor can make out the glasses which are slipping off his button nose.

“And your eyes are…” Victor’s first instinct is to say bloodshot, based on the amount of alcohol Yuuri’s obviously ingested. It’s logic. But somehow, they aren’t. They’re a fuzzy brown which reminds Victor of a _Cheburashka_ toy that sat in a shop window near his childhood practice rink. He’d always wanted that toy but never had the chance for one, and yet here it is before him. “...beautiful.”

Yuuri lights up like fairy lights blinking from inside a _yolka_. He sways and he leans, dropping his weight further into Victor’s hold.

“Ne, ne, Victor.” When Yuuri calls his name, the accent adds more vowels than belong. Victor adopts them anyway. Yuuri blabbers, telling Victor of how his parents run an inn with hot springs and how Victor should come visit. “If I-... if I win this dance battle, will you come and be my coach? Be my coach, Victor!”

It’s like finding an oasis. Yuuri pulls him by the hand and Victor is transfixed. At first, he doesn’t know what to think. Yuuri abandons him completely and, as drunken as he is, engages in an actual dance battle.

Victor’s never seen the Russian Yuri trying so hard or failing so much. There’s absolutely no competition, Yuuri wipes the floor with him. Where was this grace on the ice, this confidence, that smile which burrows in and makes a barb wire cage around Victor’s heart?

The music changes and Yuri surrenders, panting with exertion. He swears in English then in Russian, and shoves past Victor, angry in defeat.

Yuuri, however, doesn’t stop. Instead, he catches Victor’s eyes and beckons. There’s distance, at first. Victor isn’t sure how to follow. Step by step, he’s drawn in, a line of a kite and Yuuri’s holding the spindle.

Their rhythm meets and syncs, then their smiles, their hands, their legs, their heartbeats start beating together. Chest to chest, they dance. Yuuri dips him, _dips him_ , and Victor falls.

A drop of sweat rolls down Yuuri’s cheek to his jawline. Victor wants to kiss it away. With each dance, Yuuri’s hair gets messier and Victor’s breath gets shorter until he has to pull away before he’s wrecked entirely.

A moment, just one moment, he tells Yuuri, he’ll be right back, he promises. Yuuri smiles again. Victor sees the way his lips curve. They’re full and they’re pink and maybe a bit dry but Victor hopes he might end up with permission to fix that. He comes back with a drink in each hand, but Yuuri’s moved away. To Chris.

Commotion isn’t enough to describe the reaction being had to the pole Chris has set up. The banquet is no longer a drone, it’s a buzz and Victor’s riding it high.

Waking up, that’s what it feels like. Waking up ravenous for a taste of life. Victor watches the line of Yuuri’s body contort around the pole, glimpses the flex of strong thighs. The lights gleam off Yuuri’s skin as he bends, a perfect Ina Bauer arch off the pole, hanging on with only the hook of his calves. His entire form is illuminated in a halo. Victor’s certain he’s reached heaven.

Maybe it’s the alcohol but Yuuri appears clearer and clearer with each moment. Smooth skin blends from the tan of Southern Japan to the pink that’s dusting Yuuri’s collar and flushing his cheeks like the very first cherry blossom of spring. Victor can see dark strands sticking with sweat, can see how Yuuri’s honey brown eyes always settle on him.

Maybe it’s the alcohol but while the rest of the room is still blurred, Victor sees Yuuri in his entirety.

He’s the oasis and Victor wants to plunge into the clarity which awaits in Yuuri’s embrace. They’ve known each other a scarce couple hours and maybe it’s the alcohol but Victor wants nothing more than to spend every waking, breathing, living, desperate hour with Yuuri.

Yuuri collapses into Victor’s arms again once officials finally manage to pull him and Chris off the pole. “Well Victor,” he breathes against the knot of Victor’s tie and it’s tight, too tight, Victor needs to shed it. “I won! Will you… will you be my coach?”

There’s a gold medal in Victor’s hotel room, countless more in his apartment, but they’re hollow. This is a real victory. Yuuri’s more delighted now than Victor was to stand atop the podium and Victor wants to feel that for himself. With Yuuri.

“Yes. Yes, I’ll be your coach.” Victor has a tendency to forget promises. Not from mal-intent. His life is busy, his schedule is full. Promises slip. Not this one. What will he do next season? Here’s his answer. He loves to surprise people and this is the greatest surprise he could have never expected.

Victor sees Yuuri so clearly that it hurts. He knows nothing about him, why is it that he knows nothing? Victor asks. He wants to know so much. He asks and Yuuri talks, swaying on his feet, smile perpetual on his petal lips.

When he laughs it tugs at the strings in Victor’s chest, which is too small to contain the feeling expanding through it. It’s tight, too tight, like his ribs are about to crack and overwhelm the entire banquet hall in the flood of it.

It’s not long before Yuuri’s drifting off, slack against Victor’s side. His murmurs turn more foreign than familiar. Victor escorts Yuuri back to his hotel room, supporting him because he doesn't want to let go.

Halfway through the elevator ride, Yuuri goes quiet and simply stares. His fingers curl into Victor’s sleeve, his jaw slack. Victor’s got Yuuri’s shoes in hand, glasses tucked into the pocket of his jacket. Yuuri stares and reaches up, fingers a whisper against Victor’s face.

“I can… I can count your… eyelashes,” Yuuri says. It’s odd, but when Victor gets him into the hotel room and tucks a passed out Yuuri in, he pauses. He can count Yuuri’s lashes too. They’re long and dark, sweeping his skin.

It tears Victor to pieces to leave, but he can catch Yuuri in the morning when they’ve both sobered. He collapses into his own hotel bed, head full and heart singing. The room, the bed, the night isn’t cold.

 

* * *

 

The world is cruel and Victor doesn’t get his chance to see Yuuri the morning after the banquet. So, he waits.

There’s a pharmacy across the street from Victor’s apartment when he returns to St. Petersburg. He knows there is, it’s been there for years, but now he can read the sign above the door that declares _аптека_ , and it makes him stop.

At his favorite cafe, Victor always picks up the menu that’s set on the register counter but today the menu on the back wall comes into view. The letters are looped, handwritten and beautiful, with muffins and steaming drinks drawn in white chalk. He stares at it until it blurs and the girl behind the counter asks him if he’s okay. He’s not. He’s not and he leaves without ordering.

He almost forgets to greet Makkachin when he gets home, rushing to his computer. He types in the word soulmates into the search, first in English, then in Russian, then in French, in Japanese. He reads and he reads, and the more he reads, the more confusing it is. Everyone’s account is different, there’s so many blogs and forums and books and articles, all talking about _soulmates, родственная душа, âme sœurs, ソウルメイト._ Soulmate. The one who will lift him out of the haze.

Victor waits. His vision goes in and out with his conviction. One morning, he can see the individual ice flecks on the blades of his skates, the next there’s not a single word on his cellphone screen he can make out. He develops two new programs, agape on the clear days, eros on the ones that blur.

Months pass. Victor follows Yuuri’s downfall in every competition after the Grand Prix and waits. He doesn’t know for what, for a sign, for hope. It comes in the form of a video. As Victor watches Yuuri skate the answer to his call, lines and colors burst to life all around him. The brown delicate curl of Makkachin’s fur, the titles of the books on the shelf against the wall, the stitches in his shirt hem. The way Yuuri makes music with his body.

When the free skate concludes, Victor’s shaking so much he can hardly hold onto his phone. Everything is bright and sharp despite the gloom outside and Victor throws himself at Makkachin, ruffling her ears as he chokes back a cry at being able to see her face without the blur. He gets up and paces through the apartment, taking it in as if for the first time, stopping with a hand clasped over his mouth when he’s overwhelmed by it all.

He sees raindrops on the window, like crystals, promising the spray of a rainbow as soon as the sky clears. Victor smiles, and not because he has to. With a whistle, he calls to Makkachin. He’s got bags to pack and a soulmate to coach. He’s ready now.


End file.
